There's something melancholy about a stiff collared shirt tossed aside, lying crumpled on the floor. Wearing a collared shirt makes me feel confident. It reassures the world that I've "got everything together," even when I really don't. What do we suffer from hiding ourselves under a collared shirt? In my piece, the shirts themselves become artifacts of our insecurity, surrogates for the human body afflicted by inner emotional unrest.